


Billy, It’s Cold Outside

by aactionjohnny



Series: Pete/Billy [1]
Category: The Venture Bros
Genre: Fluff, M/M, New York City, One Shot, Slice of Life, i haven’t written fic in months, idk go easy on me, recently fell in love with this ship and now I’m in hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-07-13 18:49:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16023833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aactionjohnny/pseuds/aactionjohnny
Summary: This is my first attempt at writing for this fandom. When I started watching the show years ago I was like “I’mNot gonna ship anything that would be insane—“ and now look at me. I tried to kind of stick with the tone of the show (even in the title), I guess. There’s a sort of subtle humanity and sincerity to it that I’ve always admired; even though it’s hilarious, it manages to be genuine and emotionally valuable.I’m writing this aimless fic as a first go, pretty much to gauge interest to see if anyone wants more from me.





	Billy, It’s Cold Outside

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at writing for this fandom. When I started watching the show years ago I was like “I’m  
> Not gonna ship anything that would be insane—“ and now look at me. I tried to kind of stick with the tone of the show (even in the title), I guess. There’s a sort of subtle humanity and sincerity to it that I’ve always admired; even though it’s hilarious, it manages to be genuine and emotionally valuable.
> 
> I’m writing this aimless fic as a first go, pretty much to gauge interest to see if anyone wants more from me.

“And why don’t we just take the Conjecture Cycle?” It’s been been collecting dust in the basement. His mom has covered it in old sheets to keep them clean. Doesn’t exactly match the super-science aesthetic, floral. 

 

“Because,” Pete groans, muffled by the fabric of his heavy scarf as he wraps it around his jaw. “It’s friggin’ cold and I also don’t wanna look like a douchebag.” He gets enough stares as it is. It was one thing to ride that thing around the desert, but the streets of New York are a different story. People say New Yorkers wouldn’t notice a head roll by them on the sidewalk, but they sure do notice an albino on a futuristic motorcycle riding along with a tiny man in his sidecar. 

 

Billy shrugs, slipping his short arms into the sleeves of his peacoat. He won’t argue. He’s tired of arguing with him, and he’s tired of his mother fretting over their bickering. ‘A lover’s spat?’ She always wrings her hands and worries, despite how Billy reassures her that there’s nothing wrong, it’s just the way they are. And no, he hasn’t corrected her yet. He brims with the truth about his relationship with Pete, but she just seems so goddamn happy about it. Happy that  _ he’s _ happy. And he must be, because she could always tell. She doesn’t question the two beds in their room, how they’re never affectionate. ‘You know I’m okay with your lifestyle, my sweet boy.’ And he almost tells her. He almost undoes all the love she has for Pete, but he doesn’t. 

 

He’s tired of arguing, and he’s just fucking tired. Pete is too, he can tell, watching him yawn. They’ve been working non-stop in that basement laboratory, under constant watch from Rusty who insists they have to make a new scientific breakthrough once a month. It wears on them. They’ve started doing impressions of him as they unwind at the end of the day. ‘Invent me a time machine so I can go back and be a better father!’ And then they laugh themselves to sleep.

 

“Coffee?” Pete asks as he unlocks the front door. There’s a Starbucks on the way to the subway stop, because of course there is. 

 

“You have to ask?” It seems it runs their lives. Late nights, so many pots brewed they ran out of creamer. They drink it black now.  _ They _ do, because they always do the same things, together. They drink their coffee, they swipe their shared Metro Card, they politely wait for other riders to exit the car before they enter. They sit near the door so they can make a quick exit. 

 

Billy’s glad there’s a homeless man in their subway car, doing his worst rendition of “Changes.” Crazy people distract from their own weirdness _. Turn and face the stranger  _ indeed. Everyone watches the man as he spins about the center pole, brandishing his threadbare, broken umbrella. 

 

The two of them look sidelong at one another, small smiles meant to bond over their mutual secondhand embarrassment. Pete snorts and looks down into the abyss of his scarf, as if bashful. He’s being doing that lately; looking away after a moment’s glance. Billy’s used to people not looking at him, of course. They think he’ll be less offended than if they stared if they just refuse to acknowledge him. But not Pete, not ever. Maybe it’s part of being a freak, a term they now use affectionately. Pete’s always looked straight at him, no matter how obscured that stupid haircut makes his gaze.

 

“He’s possessed by Bowie’s ghost,” Pete mumbles. They try so much to quiet their laughter into the lids of their coffee. 

 

But they’re alone in a crowded place, overshadowed by this saint of a psychopath. They toss some coins into his hat as they exit the car, Billy holding onto the tail of Pete’s coat until they’re free on the platform. It’s a habit he’s developed after too many a time getting sucked back into the subway by busy commuters who don’t see him. And Pete’s taken to turning his head, looking back to make sure he has Billy safely in tow.

 

They’ve collected little things like this. The smallest of gestures now cemented in their routine. Billy closes the blinds when the sun comes up if Pete is still asleep. Pete makes sure they’re stocked on microfiber cloths to clean Billy’s mechanical hand. They sit side by side in front of that giant computer in the lab, heads tilted in toward one another. As present and solid as Rose’s old-ass furniture, these habits. ‘That’s so sweet that you do that for him,’ she says. 

 

And it  _ is _ sweet, Billy guesses. That’s how they are to one another when they’re not fighting or making fun. When they’re working, when they’re happy, it’s all pleases and thank-yous. It’s all…their fingers touching over passed equipment, their legs crossed over one another when they fall asleep on the couch. It’s them walking down the street outside the Atlantic Ave-Pacific Street station, Billy a little bit ahead of Pete, because he walks so fast. Pete makes it clear it’s not because he’s the sidekick. Partners, they say. They’ve stopped correcting people’s’ interpretation of the word. Tired of it, they say. But Billy knows it’s just because he no longer minds what people think. There are worse things than being in a relationship with a handsome albino, worse things than people thinking he actually gets laid, no matter who by. Pete’s stopped protesting, too. ‘I am not gay!’ Billy hasn’t heard it in a while. Just as they’re tired of arguing, they’re tired of fighting it.

 

-

 

The wind is biting. Pete squints against the cold, his skin already so sensitive. It’s just worse this time of year. One of his hand is stuffed in his pocket, the other hovering vaguely near Billy’s back. Like a shield, because people are assholes. Only  _ he’s  _ allowed to be an asshole to Billy. And that’s only because he knows it’s cushioned by years of closeness. He hopes Billy knows that, hopes he never has to be honest. Can you  _ imagine? _ If one could notice a blush on his skin, they’d see it when he thinks about what that might sound like. ‘Billy, ya mean everything to me and I’d die for ya.’  _ Stupid _ . So he goes on forcing himself to believe that they’re both silently on the same page. They have to be, right? They wouldn’t be sharing a room or a life or a croissant to-go, otherwise. They wouldn’t be heading to the bookstore together, even though they’re after a book only  _ one  _ of them needs. It’s just... _ weird _ when one of them stays home. Everyone remarks that they aren’t in the same place.

 

They take a break on a park bench; the store won’t open for another twenty minutes. 

 

“F-fuck it’s cold out,” Billy stammers, holding close his cup of coffee even though it’s probably cold by now.

 

“I told ya the peacoat was a dumb idea,” Pete says, resting his elbows on the back of the bench.

 

“Because your faux-fur lined  _ travesty _ is such an improvement.”

 

“At least I’m not shivering.”

 

Pete watches out of the corner of his eye at Billy as he lets small puffs of visible breath out into the cold air. Poor guy. It wouldn’t be the first time…it wouldn’t be the only time he’s helped him out like this, wouldn’t be the first time he’s comforted him. On Spanakos Billy had held ice to Pete’s skin to ease the pain of that horrific sunburn...Yeah.  _ Yeah _ , it wouldn’t be weird.

 

“Quit complaining already,” he chides, stretching out one arm and settling it over Billy’s shaking shoulder. He wraps his gloved hand around his arm, urging him to scoot along the bench and huddle close. And he obliges,  _ thank fuck _ , curling into the cavern of Pete’s skinny arm for warmth. “Better, pally?”

 

“...thanks.” 

 

Pete smiles out at the street. The sidewalks are all white from salt being spread, all the snow brown and melting. They don’t have to be honest. They just have to be together.

**Author's Note:**

> I love how much this series has become about NYC and the nuances of living there. I’ve spent a lot of time there myself and let me tell you...New York in the winter is a special kind of nightmare, but an even more special kind of magic.


End file.
